


Chance Encounters

by randolhllee



Series: Root x Shaw AU Prompts [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Tumblr Prompts, dog won't stop barking au, misdirected mail au, takeout mixup au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-01 07:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2764238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randolhllee/pseuds/randolhllee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combination of three prompts: 'came over to yell at you because your dog wont stop barking and its four in the morning but you're really neat,' 'started talking about menu items at a fast food drive-thru au' (I stretched that one a bit), and 'returning mail sent to the wrong address au.' Encounters between neighbors Root and (Dr.!) Shaw are accidental until they aren't anymore.</p><p>Now with continuing plot-line! Root's work at Wren Tech pulls her and Shaw into the company's secret projects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dog In The Night-time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedorkone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedorkone/gifts).



The knock at the door startled Root. She unfolded herself from over her computer and rubbed her eyes under her glasses. There was a distinct possibility that she had not blinked in hours, but she was eighty-seven percent done with the basic code for this project and she had never made much of a distinction between her work and home lives.

She picked her way through the small apartment to the door, avoiding clothes, books, and the boxes she had never bothered to unpack with a skill borne of long practice. She swung the door open carelessly and squinted into the sudden bright light of the hallway.

“Is this your dog?” Root blinked as her eyes adjusted. The woman who had begun so abruptly was small and dark. Her voice and body exuded controlled energy, although the circles under her eyes spoke of little sleep. She was gesturing to her feet, where an energetic ball of fur skittered in dizzy circles.

“No,” Root replied easily. She shivered as tendrils of cold air found her bare feet and ankles under her leggings. She wrapped her sweater more securely around herself, envying the small stranger her overcoat in the drafty hallway.

“Then do you know who it belongs to?” The angry woman asked. “It’s been barking outside my door all night.” She gestured down the hall, presumably to her apartment. Her furious expression was partially belied by the gentle way in which she picked up the small dog. “And it’s cold in the hallway, she shouldn’t stay out.”

Root smiled at the care coupled with fury in the other woman’s manner and shook her head. “Not mine. What does the collar say?”

She quickly checked, and looked chagrined that in her tired state she had not already thought of that.

“No collar.”

“Guess she’s yours, then,” Root answered cheekily. Her grin only widened when the woman shot her a glare. Once again, her obvious care for the dog made it clear that she did not actually hate _everything_ , no matter what her attitude said. The dichotomy intrigued Root.

“Yeah, we’ll see.” The woman turned to go, but Root stayed her with a word.

“I’m Root, by the way,” she offered. The woman paused and glanced over her shoulder.

“Sam,” she tossed back before striding away carelessly.

Root smiled wordlessly at Sam’s retreating back, leaning on the cold doorframe until she heard the thud of a shut door. Though she subsequently returned to her computer and re-immersed herself in the nearly-finished project, the picture of Sam holding the dog refused to stay completely tucked in the back of her mind. Finally, she resolved to do something about it, if only to settle her mind.

 


	2. Mixed Up

The opportunity to speak to Sam again came the next week. Root had not even shut the door behind the delivery boy when Sam rushed out of her door.

“Hey!” she called sharply down the hallway, causing him to whip around with wide eyes. Sam was striding toward Root’s door as if seeking vengeance.

“This isn’t my order,” she snapped when she reached them. “I don’t hate myself enough to order six of  _your_  eggrolls, but I do want my cashew chicken.” While the delivery boy made his panicked excuses, Root rummaged through the bag he had handed to her.

“Cashew chicken, Mongolian beef, brown rice, and sesame cookies?” she read from the slip she had fished from the depths of the greasy bag.

Sam stepped back from where she had backed the unfortunate delivery boy against the wall.

“That’s mine,” she affirmed. She glanced at the bag in her own hand and then passed it to Root.

“The eggrolls are actually pretty good eaten cold the second day,” Root offered with a grin to Sam. The delivery boy saw that Sam was no longer paying him any mind and made his quiet escape. The ding of the elevator punctuated the silence that followed Root’s comment, during which Sam examined the contents of the bag Root had handed over.

“I think he just mixed up the bags,” Root ventured finally. “It’s the same address, except for the last number.” Sam did not answer, so she tried again. “Do you order from them often?”

At her question, Sam raised her head. “Yeah,” she answered shortly. “The hospital and this building are both in their delivery radius, so it’s the easiest place to have a standing order.”

“You work at the hospital?” Root asked curiously.

Sam seemed more than usually annoyed when she answered. “I’m doing my residency.” Although obviously intelligent, she did not have the manner one expected from a doctor. Root suspected this put Sam on the offensive against incredulous-sounding questions such as the one Root had just asked.

“We’re work-neighbors too, then,” she replied pleasantly, trying to convey that she was not surprised that Sam was a doctor. “I’m at Wren Tech, down the street.” Sam’s shoulders relaxed a bit.

“Oh. Well,” Sam raised her bag minutely, “I’ll see you around.”

Once again, the sound of Sam’s door closing found Root still standing in her own doorway, holding her takeout bag and idly wondering what her next encounter with Sam might be like.

 


	3. Third Time's a Charm

The next Saturday, another knock graced Root’s door. It was the same sharp tap as before, but this time she could guess what the knocker wanted.

“Hello, Sam,” she chimed when the sight of the smaller woman confirmed her guess.

A short stack of envelopes were thrust toward her, and she hurriedly extracted her hand from the comfort of her thick wool sweater to receive them.

“These were mixed in with my mail.” Sam looked vaguely uncomfortable, standing there awkwardly in her scrubs and overcoat. She thrust her hands back into her pockets and glanced between Root and the floor with the air of someone who knew that casual social interaction was supposed to involve more than ten words in ten seconds, even if they could see no purpose in prolonging the experience. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Those are yours, right?”

Root looked at them carefully.

“Yes, these are mine.” She caught Sam’s curious look and smiled. “My full name is Samantha; Root’s a nickname. Thank you.” Root layered her voice with a casual tone and a hint of humor to put Sam at ease. “I can’t imagine why the mailman would put these in the wrong slot.” She nodded at Sam’s clothes. “Just heading to work?”

“Just got off,” Sam replied shortly.

Root thought she managed to bite back her laugh, but Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s so—oh.” Her face was blank for a moment. “You have a dirty mind,” she accused with something approaching admiration in her voice.

“I do,” Root admitted easily, now with an open smile. “You wouldn’t—“ she started, then stopped.

“What?” Root was beginning to see that everything about Sam was communicated in tiny hints, like the one of intrigue that now appeared on her face.

“Are you hungry?” Root leaned against the door casually, although her pulse was anything but normal.

“I was going to eat before I sleep,” Sam replied carefully. “Why?” Root chuckled. Sam would not give anything away; Root would have to ask for what she wanted outright.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Sam studied Root’s face, and Root stood still to let her, trying not to betray over-eagerness.

“What time?” Sam asked finally.

Root checked her watch for show before answering.

“Now?”

Sam snorted.

“Dinner now?”

Root shrugged.

“It’s dinner for you, isn’t it?”

Sam considered for a moment, then pulled a face.

“I haven’t slept in thirty hours. I’ll be horrible company,” she warned Root with a frown, still reluctant to agree. Root merely swung the door open further and started to walk away into the apartment.

“Do you want coffee?” she called over her shoulder as she padded into the kitchen.

“Sure,” she heard. She could sense Sam entering the apartment with the stealth and wariness of a stray cat. Much as she would with such a cat, Root did not look directly at Sam or make any sudden movements. Instead, she busied herself at the kitchen counter with coffee filters and mugs. When she finally turned around with two steaming cups, Sam was seated at the small table and sleepily regarding the slightly messy kitchen.

Root was warmly happy when she handed Sam her mug and their hands brushed. She leaned against the table next to Sam’s chair, deliberately putting herself in the other woman’s space.

“How do pancakes for dinner sound?” she asked quietly.

So far, Sam had made no moves or indication that she was as attracted to Root as Root was to her. However, it was also clear that if she had not at some level wanted Root close, she would have taken steps to distance herself from Root. At least, that was the theory on which Root was basing all of her actions.

“It’s eight AM, I think we can call it breakfast,” Sam dead-panned.

“No.” Root grinned. “I’m not making you breakfast on the first date.”

Sam raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“No,” Root repeated firmly. “Breakfast you have to earn.”

“What do I have to do to earn breakfast?” Sam’s words came quickly, and even her wide eyes expressed vaguely surprised at what those words were.

Root laughed fully, entirely enjoying the small woman’s sleepy presence in her apartment. Then she lowered her chin and looked directly into Sam’s eyes.

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she purred.

Sam narrowed her eyes and sipped at her coffee.

“Fine then. But if you’re going to make dinner, you’d better do it before I fall asleep here,” she threatened.

Root grinned and headed for the pantry, and a few moments later Sam heaved herself from the chair to follow. When Root admitted that she was not entirely sure how to make pancakes, Sam sighed with exasperation and pushed past her to take over the search for ingredients. Root beamed happily as Sam began to order her around the kitchen. The next few minutes were occupied with batter-making and news of the errant puppy Sam had christened Nano.

In the comfortable silence that fell while they both watched the pancakes sizzling in the pan, Root risked a glance at the woman beside her and mentally congratulated herself. That bribe to the postman was the best ten dollars she had ever spent.


	4. Checking Up and Checking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw receives a surprise visitor at the hospital.

The bustle of the emergency room was overwhelming to most people, but to Shaw, the complex choreography was comfortably normal. Some surgeons saw the pit as a battlefield upon which the day was lost or won. Shaw could see the appeal of that metaphor, but for her it was different. Scrubs and white coat formed armor, but the protection it offered was more social than physical; no one questioned a battle god’s manners or attitude.

Her co-workers were a slightly different matter, but, as she reasoned to her attending surgeons, if she was professional and highly capable, what did it matter that she was never going to be invited for a drink after shift? The question itself was uncomfortable, but her matter-of-factness is stating that she had no friends was perhaps even more disconcerting for her supervisors. As long as they let her operate, though, Shaw continued to charge through the halls of the hospital with her head held high.

That morning as she ended another double shift, one of the meeker nurses intersected her on her straight path to the surgical board.

“Dr. Shaw?” he asked, falling into place next to Shaw.

“Yeah,” Shaw grunted, still moving.

“You have a patient waiting on the third floor, in the out-patient wing.” The nurse attempted to hand over a post-it, but Shaw broke stride and stood with her arms crossed.

“I don’t see patients in the out-patient wing,” she spat harshly.

The nurse cowered, but stood his ground.

“I couldn't say, but they called and said she’s waiting,” he explained before cautiously handing her the post-it.

Shaw examined it with a pinched expression. When the nurse attempted to escape, she collared him with a sharp ‘hey!’

“Leo, I need you to tell Dr. Hersh that I’ll have to catch him up on the post-ops tomorrow,” she sighed angrily with her eyes to the ceiling.

“It’s Leon,” the nurse ventured. “And can’t you just call him?”

He was gone before Shaw could threaten to strangle him.

Grumbling as she went, Shaw climbed the stairs and crossed the wings to get to her destination. The post-it merely said “12A-314, 7AM.” She checked her watch; it was already 7:15. Well, people were used to doctors being late.

She stopped at the nurses’ station on the third floor to retrieve the patient’s file. The nurse looked at her curiously.

“What?” Shaw demanded. She was meant to be going home. She was in no mood for these annoyances.

“Nothing,” the nurse replied easily. “I’ve just only ever seen you for surgeries.”

“Yeah, well,” Shaw muttered, “that’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“So what are you doing with a routine check-up?” the nurse asked curiously, apparently not at all put-off by Shaw’s poor manners.

But Shaw had just seen the name at the top of the file, and the nurse stared quizzically at the suddenly deadly anger in her eyes. Without another word, Shaw spun and strode off toward the exam room.

The nurse chuckled. Surgical residents always thought everything was life-or-death.

* * *

 

“ _If-it-is-her-I-swear-to-God_ —“ Shaw rushed out under her breath as she streaked toward the exam room. She flung open the door, but was too furious to finish her threat.

“Hello, Sam!” Root sang gaily. She sat on the paper-covered exam table, sock-clad feet and bare legs sticking out from an exam gown. She looked suspiciously cheerful for someone in a dignity-stealing paper shirt in a cold room at seven-fifteen in the morning.

“Root,” Shaw said threateningly, “what are you doing here?” The thought that perhaps the other woman had at least brought food was promptly squashed. This was too irksome to be fixed by food.

“Just a check-up,” the programmer answered cheerfully. “You’re supposed to get one every year, you know,” she added piously.

Shaw rolled her eyes and plopped down onto the rolling stool provided for doctors. She leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, the picture of skepticism.

“Yeah, well, seeing as you haven’t had a routine visit in,” she checked Root’s file again to be sure, “five years, what are you really doing?”

Root scooted a bit nearer along the exam slab, and Shaw was suddenly reminded that the other woman was probably not wearing much under the paper gown. Root smirked when she saw Shaw’s eye widen.

“I don’t know, Sam,” Root purred. “Your good influence must just be _rubbing off_ on me.” She placed special emphasis on the operative verb, and grinned when Shaw looked even more discomfited.

“Whatever,” Shaw muttered. Then she glanced up at Root with renewed suspicion. “How did you even get an appointment?”

Root shrugged. “I mentioned that I knew you and they were happy to schedule it,” she explained innocently. The truth involved a few more adjustments to the hospital’s database and a little more wheedling of the scheduling nurse than she mentioned, but those were mere details.

Shaw made a note to kill the scheduling nurse.

“Well, I’m a surgeon,” she asserted. “I don’t do check-ups. And I’m not even on shift anymore,” she continued plaintively.

“Poor Sam,” Root sympathized sweetly. “But since I’m here—“ she trailed off in the face of Shaw’s warning expression. “Come on, Sam, you can be done in no time. I’m sure you’re very—“ she paused and let her eyes wander down across Shaw’s body to her hands and back up. “—skilled.” She leaned in a little closer and murmured, “This is a good way to earn breakfast, by the way.”

Given that walking away was strictly unprofessional, Shaw groaned. At least there was an intriguing breakfast on offer.

* * *

 

“Where are you taking me for breakfast?” Shaw asked, affecting boredom.

“I was thinking somewhere close to your apartment, so we can get you home quickly if the need should arise,” Root hummed.

“Well, we’re not going to your place,” Shaw said decisively. “You can’t cook for shit.”

This brought Root up short for a moment, but then she shrugged. It was true.

“Fine. I assume you know somewhere good?” she asked her shorter companion. “Or we could get Chinese takeout,” she remarked playfully, nudging Shaw’s shoulder and pointing at a delivery boy scurrying down the hallway. “Who orders Chinese this early?” she wondered. Then she squinted after the scampering figure. “Isn’t that the one you were going to castrate?”

Shaw ignored her last comments. “It’s eight AM. No Chinese. I have standards.”

Root was entertained to hear her tone shift when she spoke next.

“We’re going to Lionel’s,” Shaw continued with the air of one contemplating a religious experience. An involuntary hum of pleasure escaped her mouth as they walked.

Root threw Shaw an amused look.

“Try to contain yourself, Sam,” she remarked playfully. Then she leaned down to whisper in Shaw’s ear as they walked. “At least until we’re in a more private place.”

Shaw jerked away and narrowed her eyes.

“Shut up, Root,” she ordered. “I’m not the one who falls off the table when someone touches my stomach.” She paused at the door, and both women swiftly put on their coats.

“I’m ticklish!” Root protested as she tugged on her jacket. “I told you that!”

“Yeah, whatever,” Shaw smirked. She slung her messenger bag across her body and they exited the building, bickering as they went.

Neither woman paid any more attention to the delivery boy who had followed them down the hall at a careful distance. His sharp eyes did not leave their backs until they had been completely swallowed by the dim parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been convinced to continue this story! In addition to fluff, there will be a more substantial plot backing the story as well. Let me know what you think!


End file.
